


Winter's End

by Clara_de_Morra



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fall of the Lich King AU, Fall of the Lich King retelling, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:41:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26818258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clara_de_Morra/pseuds/Clara_de_Morra
Summary: Everything they had struggled for, everything they had achieved, everything they had given......all led to this.And whether they lived or died, they would make their stand.
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> After nearly nine years, at least five different rewrites of the introduction, and struggling to piece things together, it is complete.
> 
> "No king rules forever", indeed.

The gray-haired man unerringly strikes the hot metal his apprentice holds to the anvil, his accuracy unaffected by the dark cloth that hides empty sockets. A self-inflicted wound, he called it, if anyone had the courage to ask; a small price to pay to never again witness the horrors he had committed a lifetime ago in the name of the Scourge. 

Many today had asked him of it, and none save the few wise enough to turn back had returned from the depths of the Citadel. Hardly hours before, he could hear the faint echoes of their screams. 

Now, naught but the steady rhythm disturbs the silence. 

Unexpectedly loud steps that resound from within the hall alert him to the presence of more of these so-called adventurers… but the prickling against his ashen skin, a sensation he never wished to experience again, tells him all he needs as they make their approach. 

He knows the one that leads by the feeling alone. 

“ _Darion Mograine._ ” He salutes. “ _Would that we could have met again under better circumstances._ ” 

Mograine chuckles darkly, patting the smith on the back as the ones that followed spread to the far corners, muttering amongst themselves. 

“ _You say that as if these **weren’t** the best of circumstances._” 

The smith snorts loudly, but otherwise says nothing as the other man’s attention is drawn towards the entrance. 

“ _Ah. It seems our friend has arrived._ ” 

The air around them seems to shift, the temperature seemingly plummeting further as a silvery-haired woman trudges through the grand doors of the Citadel, and Darion turns slightly, nodding a greeting. 

“ _Good to see you, Christina._ ” 

The corner of her lip twitches very faintly as she almost forces a nod of recognition. 

“ _Darion Mograine._ ” 

The smith’s jaw tightens subtly at the newcomer’s voice, a voice he recalls far too clearly from days long passed. 

“ _You were his right hand, were you not?_ ” He states, his voice low and even. 

“ _I was._ ” 

He remains silent as he hears her turn on her heel, but as her steps fade, a droning murmur begins to fill his ears as more of the rank and file make their appearances; voices both high and deep, languages harsh and light, plate armor that grinds against cold steel, the creaking of too-cold leather, and the rustling of heavy cloth as all sorts gather. 

The hall falls quiet as several sets of footsteps echo loudly, an excited din rising soon behind them. 

A man in the winter of his years, outfitted in royal blues accented with gleaming golds and silvers, crosses the threshold, a presence of dignity and Light seeming to fill the chamber with him. A steely gaze of emerald green, framed with lines that had witnessed history unfold, peers hard at his surroundings from beneath his helmet’s raised visor. 

“Highlord!” 

“Highlord Fordring!” 

“Praise the Light!” 

“And…” 

“Is that—?” 

The dwarf a step behind him is armored from head to toe in thick plate and chain of lustrous silver, but the thick burnished copper beard of the Bronzebeard clan is unmistakable. A shadowed gaze of topaz stares intensely from the horned helm upon his head, and he crosses his arms. 

“ _Muradin Bronzebeard?_ ” 

Someone whispers too loudly, but he pays it no mind. 

“I thought he was dead…” 

Another shushes. 

“Not so loud!” 

“This is our final stand.” Tirion Fordring begins, his voice level and absolute, and the murmuring ceases. “What happens here will echo through the ages. Regardless of outcome, they will know that we fought with honor, and for the freedom and safety of our people.” 

He pulls the fabled sword from his back, thrusting it into the air. 

“Our march upon Icecrown Citadel begins now!” 

Before a chorus of voices can rise in agreement, a voice, deep and chilling to the core, echoes through the grand halls of the citadel, seemingly coming from everywhere. 

“ _ **You stand upon the hallowed ground of the Scourge, paladin. The Light won’t protect you. Nothing will protect you.**_ ” 

“ARTHAS!” Tirion snarls, his voice rising further. “I swore I would see you dead and the Scourge dismantled! I will finish what was started at Light’s Hope!” 

“ _ **You could have been among my greatest champions, Fordring. But that honor is no longer yours.**_ ” A long, deep laugh echoes through the halls. “ _ **The breaking of this one has been taxing. He has resisted for so long, but he will bow before his king soon.**_ ” 

“ _NEVER!_ I-I will… never… serve you…” 

A short silence, and the voice that could only be recognized as Bolvar Fordragon cries in pain. 

“ _ **In the end, you will all serve me.**_ ” 

The halls fall silent for only a moment before all present begin speaking at once. 

“Highlord Bolvar!” 

“He survived the Wrath Gate!” 

“Could it be, Lord Fordring?” 

“It must be so!” 

“If Bolvar lives, mayhap there is hope for peace between the Alliance and the Horde! We must reach the top of this cursed place and free him!” 

Muradin turns to an elaborately garbed mage. 

“Prepare the Skybreaker for an aerial assault on the Citadel!” 

The mage nods once before opening a portal, and he leaps through it as the dwarf turns to address the gathered forces. 

“Fight your way to a clear extraction point! We’ll rendezvous with you on the ramparts!” 

He bounds into the portal and it closes behind him with a _pop_. 

“ _Ebon Blade, form ranks!_ ” 

Darion’s voice reverberates through the grand hall and dark-armored forms answer, forming ranks and drawing weapons. Unholy power hums throughout the armored wall, intermingled with sparks of frost and the rancid smell of blood magic. 

“Kirin Tor, bring up the rear!” 

The uniformed mages fair jump at the command, and arcane fire and frost soon join the symphony of magic that electrifies the air. 

A shout of warning breaks through the ranks as the clicking and clattering of bone and claw upon frigid stone and metal rushes to meet them. A deafening buzz rises harshly and suddenly as swarm after swarm of Nerubian beetles dart overhead, only to be incinerated by arcane fire before they can reach the back lines. 

“ _Ebon Blade, press forward!_ ” 

They hardly need to be told twice, lunging forward and carving swaths through the fodder. Animated bones shutter briefly before bursting into fragments that ricochet sharply off armor and slice across the stone, the mages behind stumbling and leaping backwards to avoid losing extremities.

“Kirin Tor, shields up! Advance!” 

Shimmering arcane and frost barriers spring around their casters, and volley after volley of fire and chaotic energies bombard Scourge indiscriminately as the ranks press forward. Insectoid screeches and clattering bones rise to meet them, and— 

“Argent Crusade, _forward!_ ” 

With a shout from Tirion Fordring, at last, paladins and crusaders charge through any openings they can find, gleaming swords cleaving and polished shields pushing the tide further in their favor. 

“ _This is the beginning, and the end, mortals. None may enter the master’s sanctum!_ ” 

As the grand chamber opens before them, a goliath of bone comes to life at the approach, its many fanged maws clattering in glee as it hefts a colossal ax of frost and bone. 

“Argent Crusade, defensive positions!” 

Brilliant ivory and gilded shields rise as one, the Light a golden glow upon the polished metal. The ax is brought down with a deafening clang across the wall of shields once, twice, before the Light flares brightly and sends it reeling backwards, the ax groaning from the force.

“ _The Scourge will wash over this world as a swarm of death and destruction!_ ” 

One of its many fanged maws opens, blue fire spilling from its jaws and spreading to everything it can touch. The Kirin Tor and the Ebon Blade push back against it with fire and ice of their own, halting its advance and making to snuff it to the source, but another opens and those unlucky enough to be near it shriek as unholy fire consumes them utterly. 

“ _Press forward!_ ” 

Darion’s shout rings throughout the chamber as the Ebon Blade make their stand, heavy runeblades and engraved axes hacking and cleaving through magicked bone. The mages of the Kirin Tor launch volleys of fire, weakening the bonds that hold it together, and the ax falls from its grip into a thousand-thousand pieces. It bellows as the onslaught of magic and Light and blade forces it backwards and crashing into the vast pillar of frost behind it, showering the armies with shards of ice. 

“Bring it down, _bring it down!_ ” 

Tirion’s command only makes it far easier to do so, and at last, the monstrosity shudders uncontrollably, bones clattering as the magic within it sparks and sputters. 

“ _I see… only darkness…_ ” 

It collapses to the metal and stone in a heap of splintered pieces, the magic dead and the air still. 

“What… what was that?” 

One of the Kirin Tor breaks the short silence, breath in heaving pants, and his eyes fall on the silver-haired woman nearby. She looks up, cold gaze resting briefly upon the mage before averting her attention to the remains of the colossus. 

“ _Marrowgar. The guardian of the Frozen Throne and wielder of its power, and built with the bones of a thousand souls thoughtless enough to delve within the vaults of the Citadel._ ” 

She bends down to grasp a fragment of bone, glancing over it with cold eyes. 

“ _He has been busy while I’ve been away. Marrowgar had not been so complete then._ ” 

An involuntary shudder runs down the mage’s spine, and he can feel that she saw it, but neither of them speak for a long moment. 

“ _Stopping at the base of the Spire does not help us in our war against him. If you are breathless now, nothing will save you from the horrors above._ ” 

Darion steps forward, slinging a thick-bladed longsword over a shoulder, almost smirking. 

“ _Careful now, Christina. You’ll scare the poor boy._ ” 

Her gaze turns hard, her brow furrows deeply, and her voice rises to echo throughout the chamber. 

“ _If you cannot keep up, stay behind._ ” 

She turns from the group to charge ahead, up a long ramp hidden from sight along the western wall and out of sight behind the Spire. 

“Wait!” 

Darion barks a loud laugh and the mage nearly jumps from his skin. 

“ _Bold of you to assume that she would listen to any of us._ ” 

“Bold of her to assume that she is in charge.” The mage grumbles. 

Another Knight of the Ebon Blade approaches, grinning broadly and scratching at his mustache. 

“ _I would not be surprised if we catch up to her and she’s already throttled him._ ” 

Darion laughs again. 

“ _Neither would I. But we cannot allow her to claim vengeance for us all this day._ ” 

The knights of the Ebon Blade break into a sprint, mages and crusaders close behind as they ascend the wide ramp. Almost immediately, they emerge into a chamber of high-vaulted ceilings and long pews filled with shadowy acolytes with bowed heads, their forms illuminated by braziers of cold flame. 

“ **You have found your way here because you are among the few gifted with true vision in a world cursed with blindness. You can see through the fog that hangs over this world like a shroud, and are able to grasp where true power lies.** ” 

A veiled lich hovers before the throngs of the cult, her voice loud and booming within the chamber, skeletal hands raised in reverence. 

“ **Through our Master, all things are possible. His power is without limit, and His will unbending. Those who oppose Him will be destroyed utterly, and those who serve – wholly, unquestioningly, with utter devotion – will be elevated to heights beyond their ken!** ” 

There is a relentless droning that fills the chamber, echoing off the undecorated walls. Christina stands at the top of the wide-set steps descending into the chamber, stock still and arms crossed, mouth twisted into a grimace. 

“ _Must she speak so loudly? The Cult could still hear her if she stayed true to her moniker._ ” 

Darion nearly chokes upon a laugh, but she does not wait for a response as she descends the steps, her cloak of dark gray trailing behind along the smooth stone. 

“What is—” 

“ _She was never truly known for her subtlety._ ” 

The frost seeps along the floor, gripping and holding fast to anything it can reach, biting into any exposed flesh and freezing deep. The acolytes it grasps cry out in shock, attempting to pull their feet away but to no avail. 

“ **What is this disturbance?!** ” 

The acolytes stumble to flee from the encroaching armies, screams of terror dying in their throats as they are cut down, crumpling to the flooring in inelegant heaps. A volley of frost and fire is launched at the lich, and she brings her skeletal arms up. 

“ **You dare trespass upon this hallowed ground?** ” 

A shimmering barrier encases her almost instantly, and as the volley of magic crashes against it, it fizzles out. 

…but she soon spots the silver-haired woman. 

“ ** _You!_** ” She shrieks. “ **Traitorous wretch!** ” 

The frost expands, glinting across the floors until nothing remains uncoated, and it bursts into a shimmering dust when it reaches the barrier. 

“ **You betray your King, and now you storm his sanctuary? Have you no shame?!** ” 

The frost reforms and holds more firmly. 

“ _Attack!_ ” 

A shout from Darion, and the Ebon Blade charges forward in unison. 

“Forward!” 

A shout from Tirion, and the Argent Crusade surges. A torrent of arcane and fire and Light is launched, and with a resounding _crack_ , the barrier shatters into countless pieces that flicker and fade into nothing. 

“ ** _Enough!_ I see that I must take matters into my own hands!**” 

The fetid smell of rot sears nostrils as a circle of decay spreads rapidly in all directions, the blood of slain acolytes bubbling, frothing, burning. Mages and crusaders alike bring barriers up around themselves, and those too slow double over retching before slumping motionless to the flooring. 

“ **Do you yet grasp the futility of your actions?!** ” 

A jagged spear of frost is launched unceremoniously at the lich, and it scrapes the side of her skull as she dodges the blow. 

…but the flaring of the dim light within her empty eye sockets tells the mustached knight that the lich had not accounted for him behind it, a wicked grin upon his ashen face as he drives a thick-bladed broadsword into her skull. 

As he kicks from the landed blow, the lich’s corporeal form flickers. 

“ **All part of the Master’s plan!** ” She rasps. “ **Your end… is… _inevitable!_** ” 

She vanishes with a dreadful shriek, shredded and ichor-stained robes falling lifeless to the platform with a dull rustle, her warning still ringing in the ears of all present. 

“‘All part of… the Master’s plan’?” A mage repeats warily. “What does that—” 

A scream pierces the air. 

“Ghouls!” 

“ _BURN THEM!_ ” 

The Kirin Tor and the Argent Crusade are swift to answer, arcane and holy fire igniting and consuming undead flesh until naught remains but ashes. Darion snarls something and a pair of mages frown, but before any can respond, there is a grinding of metal on stone and the central piece of the platform begins to rise. 

“What—?!” 

“ _It leads to the ramparts._ ” Christina states simply, her voice even and unbothered by the jarring movement as she casts her gaze upwards briefly. “ _It will return for the rest._ ” 

The uneasy shifting in posture of the mages and a handful of crusaders does not go unnoticed as Darion and the mustached knight snort. 

“ _What’s the matter? Never worked with a former enemy before?_ ” 

“Not exactly, but how does—” 

“ _You may ask me yourself; I am within speaking distance._ ” She states flatly. 

The crusader flushes a bright red, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. 

“How do you know its purpose?” 

“ _I oversaw the construction of the entirety of the Citadel. I know many of its secrets._ ” 

“Are there other entrances? Within the mountains, or beneath the Citadel?” 

“ _None that the living would pass unmolested. He keeps it well-guarded._ ” 

“Weaknesses in the structure?” 

“ _Of course not._ ” 

“What of—” 

“ _I shared all of my knowledge with Fordring. If you must know more, I suggest you speak with him._ ” 

“But—” 

“ _I tire of this interrogation. Speak to the old paladin if my answers disappoint you._ ” 

Freezing winds bite at any exposed extremities as the platform shutters to a halt at the ramparts. All but the Ebon Blade immediately recoil from the shock, and she strides off unphased. 

“ _This is as high as it goes. We will meet Muradin here for the remainder of the ascent._ ” 

The group trudges from the platform and the wind howls around them, their grip upon their weapons visibly tightening as they make their way around the spire. 

“ _Frostwyrms!_ ” 

Roars fall from the sky but are cut short as cannon fire screams, heavy cannonballs smashing against the reanimated wyrms. Those hit shriek as their broken wings bat uselessly against the wind, the magic holding them together fizzling out as they fall, and they explode in a shower of jagged bone. 

“FIRE! FIRE!!” 

Screaming orders across deck for all to hear, Muradin Bronzebeard dashes back and forth between cannons, his hammers brandished. Soon enough, the sky is cleared of the Frost Queen’s brood, and as the Skybreaker docks nearby, he waves the group over. 

“Let’s get a move on! We’ve got a meetin’ with destiny!” 

The first group shuffles aboard the gunship, the second group not far behind. 

“Saurfang is bringin’ up the rear; he’ll grab whoever’s missin’.” 

The roar of engines and propellers fills the sky, and the Skybreaker ascends, making slow circles around the Citadel until at last, it reaches the ramparts. The group follows Muradin from the gunship, gnomish and goblin sappers not far behind, carrying various explosives and charges and setting them at the base of the grand doors. 

“Stand back, everyone!” A gnome with pink pigtails and oversized goggles calls to the group before she sets a fuse and retreats to a safer distance. 

The button is pressed and several fuses hiss as they light and almost instantly explode. A chorus of coughs and hacking resounds through the dust and smoke, many hands waving away soot as soldiers and mages and crusaders alike try to see if it succeeded. 

…but when the smoke clears, the doors remain as whole as ever. 

“Well, fiddlesticks!” 

“I was sure that would work… maybe it’s the ever-unreliable goblin engineering…” 

One of said goblin engineers makes a highly undignified noise, but whatever arguing happens is drowned out as Orgrim’s Hammer makes its appearance, carrying the remainder of the armies. 

An old orc steps forth, standing tall amongst the others. His graying braids hang far over broad armored shoulders, his face set in a scowl and brow creased heavily above a hardened gaze of amber. He snorts roughly and shakes his head, the tarnished metal rings that decorate his tusks shaking slightly with the movement. 

“Lok’tar ogar!” 

“Varok Saurfang!” 

“For the Horde!” 

Raucous shouting is cut off with the grinding of steel on stone, and the grand doors before them open. The sound of plated boots upon the terrace is almost thunderous in the otherwise silent air, and a hulking orc that reeks of decay emerges, striding confidently towards the group. 

“ _Do you believe that you’ve already won? Look around you: for every Horde soldier we have slain, for every Alliance dog that falls, the Lich King’s armies grow._ ” 

He hefts a great ax over one shoulder, his mouth splitting into a wicked toothy grin as his gaze rests upon the old soldier. 

“ _Join me, father, and we will conquer this world for the Scourge._ ” 

Varok Saurfang hardly so much as twitches at the offer. 

“…my son died at the Wrath Gate. I am here only to collect his body.” 

The Deathbringer snarls. 

“ _Stubborn old man. What chance do you have?_ ” 

He stands his ground, unfazed. 

“I made a promise to his mother before she died: that I would cross the Dark Portal alone, and whether I lived or died, my son would be safe. Today… I fulfill that promise.” 

“ _Charge_!” 

A dark magic pulses once and sweeps across the group, crusaders and mages and Ebon Blade shielding themselves as it does. The Deathbringer laughs darkly as the unlucky ones are scattered across the rise clutching at their throats, while Varok and Muradin are thrown back with unexpected force, shadowed bindings holding them in place. 

A loud, bestial snarl reverberates through the Deathbringer’s being as an ashen-skinned orc rises to meet him. He straightens his back to his full imposing height, looming above the twisted and fallen forms of his multitude of brothers-in-arms as they struggle to rise, the icy glow of his gaze fiercely defiant. 

The toe of his broadax rests against the dark stone, his hands clasped below the pommel. 

“ _Moktha of clan Warsong calls you to Mak’gora, Dranosh Saurfang._ ” 

The orc’s grin only widens, and the top curving edge of the ax clangs near his boots. 

“ _And Saurfang the Deathbringer will accept. Name your terms._ ” 

“ _No sorcery, no shamanic blessings, no elements. One weapon._ ” 

A moment of buzzing silence hangs heavily, and the Deathbringer charges. 

A deafening crash of blood-wrought steel is the challenger’s answer, and the Deathbringer pushes hard against the blow. A flurry of movement, of ax-blades and fists, and leather and blackened steel boots scuff the stone and metal beneath them. 

Armor caves and breaks, scattering across the rise in splintered pieces. Bestial roars temporarily deafen those closest to the contest. 

The time between seconds feels an eternity as the breathing of the spectators turns from labored to silent, a cold terror settling deep at the sickening noise of metal cleaving through frozen flesh and muscle and bone. 

Silence is broken as black blood drips from scar-riddled skin, battered and bruised in life and undeath, to the icy stone beneath. 

…and the Deathbringer falls to his knees, the haze visibly lifting from his eyes. 

“ _I… am… released._ ” 

As the ax is wretched free, the icy glow of his eyes fades, and he falls flat to the platform with a dull thud. The victor’s hands clench tightly into fists, and he lets loose a victorious scream into the sky as a smattering of Horde soldiers rise and erupt into a chorus of shouts and howls. 

The shadowy bindings that hold Varok and Muradin dissipate, and they collapse fully to the icy stone and metal, struggling to fully catch their breath. The old soldier is first to stand, his hard, unblinking gaze unable to abandon the sight before him, and his feet seem to move on their own towards the still form of the Deathbringer. 

He kneels wordlessly, the heel of his hand tapping once against his son’s sternum, and once more with his knuckles. 

“You have earned your warrior’s death, my son. I will bring you home to Nagrand, and you will have a ceremony beside the pyres of your mother and ancestors.” 

He easily lifts the body, and as he does, the victor stands before him, his face grim. 

“Moktha of Warsong. Always remember.” 

“ _I will never forget._ ” He places a hand on the older orc’s shoulder. 

He grunts in reply, pulling away to utilize the Scourge transporter near the Skybreaker. 

“Heed me, heroes: no matter the enemy, no matter the odds… fight with honor. Even should the battle turn dire… never forsake it.” 

He turns without another word, and an icy light envelops him as he vanishes from sight. 

The silence hangs over the armies as they trudge through the opened doors and into the upper reaches of the Citadel, through narrow, frost-covered corridors. Unfamiliar pipes line the walls every few feet, their clockwork mechanisms and spouts unmoving in the low temperature. 

“Keep alert.” Tirion warns the front lines. “The Light only knows what—” 

A panicked shout resounds as the mechanisms suddenly spring to life, spewing a storm of frost upon them. Mage-fire blooms in the tight halls, keeping the ice at bay and warding the chill of certain death as Light streaks through, exploding the metal into scrap. 

The Highlord frowns, his brow creasing as he turns back. 

“Any injured?” He shouts. 

Mages dust themselves off as the gentle glow of the Light illuminates the surrounding area, priests and crusaders tending to the hurts they can see. The halls buzz with the silence of the Citadel and the low-spoken chatter as all present regain their bearings, each one on high alert for what may lurk around the corners. 

Tirion’s voice lowers to a rough whisper. 

“Quietly now. Something will have heard that.” 

“ _Stealth will do naught for us in his ‘hallowed halls’, Fordring. He knows we’ve come, and he knows what we mean to do._ ” 

“How should we proceed?” 

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her arms crossing beneath her chest. 

“ _His val’kyr have patrolled these upper reaches since the spire’s completion, but even they are not invincible: strike fast and true as they pass. We will get few chances as this._ ” 

He gestures to the front lines of the Argent Crusade, and a broad-shouldered draenei vindicator steps forward and salutes briskly. He withdraws a simplistic war hammer from its place at his hip, speaking a reverent prayer, and as it seems to glimmer with Light, he steps from behind the corner. 

He suddenly draws back and throws it. The hammer strikes the val’kyr’s head, and her helmet shatters with a sickening crunch before her limp form plummets to the dark reaches below. 

He withdraws to Fordring wordlessly. 

“Well struck. Did you see any others?” 

He nods once. 

“Only one other in the further reaches. We can leave her for questioning if—” 

“ _Leave none. She will yield no useful information to us._ ” 

Muttering rises from the Argent Crusade and the Ebon Blade, some in agreement and some in dismay. 

“Leave none.” He repeats. “We cannot be certain that she won’t raise an alarm and bring the whole of the Citadel upon us.” 

An elven ranger clad in the colors of the Silver Covenant steps forth, and an armored elven woman follows closely behind him, the ornate blade at her hip fair gleaming with Light. 

“We will take care of her.” 

“Understood, Mendell.” He nods to the ranger, before gesturing to the armored woman. “Aurienne. Light guide your hands.” 

They bow their heads to the old paladin before soundlessly vanishing beyond the towering archway, their footfalls as whispers against the cold steel then fading to nothing. 

Silence hangs as the seconds, then minutes, tick by, the din of chatter having long since lost its charm. Those normally too impatient to wait are left to pace back and forth, their shuffling steps muffled against the dull, scuffed steel. 

Hurried footsteps, growing louder by the moment, send those closest to the archway into a brief panic until the two elves round the corner, panting to catch their breath. 

“It is done; she is fallen and alerted no others.” 

“Then let us move forward. Christina.” 

Tirion’s gaze shifts to the silver-haired woman, and she straightens her posture as the old paladin turns fully, offering a weathered parchment in a tight roll. 

“Tell them what you know.” 

She accepts the parchment, unfurling it to reveal a detailed map. 

“ _The upper reaches of the citadel are split into three distinct sections_ ,” she begins. “ _The Plagueworks lies in the western portion, heading clockwise from our current position; the ‘Professor’ Putricide creates more potent plagues and Blights for his master._ ” 

“Are there other major threats in that wing?” 

“ _Not to my knowledge, but you know the Scourge nearly as well as I; be prepared for the worst to happen._ ” 

She motions to the top of the map. 

“ _In the northern reaches is the Crimson Hall, where the Lich King’s san’layn reside. His Darkfallen elves are vicious; they care for naught save their insatiable hunger, and their ‘Blood-Queen’ least of all. Do not let them get close._ ” 

“What will happen?” 

“ _You are better off not knowing._ ” 

“Tell them, Christina. They need to know.” 

Her jaw tightens visibly, a scowl twisting her mouth. 

“ _Tell them what, exactly? That should they fall victim to these Darkfallen, they will be drained of blood to empower their foe? That should they suffer an injury severe enough, they will be dominated to tear apart their former comrades? That should that happen, there is no escape but death?_ ” 

“That is _enough_. We waste time with this. Continue.” 

She frowns, exhaling harshly through her nose, before gesturing to the remaining side of the map. 

“ _The final wing is the lair of the Frost Queen and her brood. He kept it thinly guarded before, and it is unlikely to have remained so; the frostwyrms remain some of his greatest weapons._ ” 

“Do you have any speculations to what guards it now?” 

“ _A few. The usual fodder of ghouls, geists, and vrykul; perhaps what remains of the undead nerubians. A few liches still in corporeal form remain in his service, so they are also a possibility. Val’kyr if we are unlucky._ ” 

Tirion nods once firmly. 

“Understood.” He turns towards the armies, signaling to Darion and the draenei vindicator. “Darion, take your best to combat the Plagueworks; bring down as many of its defenses as you can until reinforcements arrive.” 

“ _‘Reinforcements’?_ ” Darion very nearly laughs. “ _We will await your arrival atop a mountain of corpses._ ” 

“Vindicator Dranza, take the rangers of Silver Covenant and the best of the Argent Crusade with you to combat the Darkfallen. If even half of what she says is true, the Light will shine brightest there. Await the remainder of the reinforcements before engaging their Queen directly.” 

“At once, Highlord.” The vindicator salutes before he gestures to the elven pair close by. “Mendell, Aurienne; we hit them swiftly and silently. Give them no chance to react or retaliate.” 

“Understood.” 

The vindicator then motions silently to the frontmost crusaders, a handful of Silver Covenant rangers following behind; their orders are given briefly, and they salute. Tirion then turns to the mages gathered to his other side, and when none step forward, he beckons the closest. 

“Take the Kirin Tor and purge the lair of the Frost Queen of its defenses, but do not engage the frostwyrms without backup. Hold for the remaining forces to reach you before striking.” 

The mage nods before turning towards the others that had gathered, and he gestures for them to follow as he soon rounds the corner and disappears. As the remainder of the forces split into groups to make their preparations, she takes a step forward to follow the Ebon Blade. 

“Christina.” 

A single word from the old paladin and she halts, glancing back to him with narrowed eyes. 

“ _Yes?_ ” 

“You will remain here. We have much to discuss.” 

She scoffs audibly. 

“ _Discuss? What do we have to discuss? I gave you every detail I could remember of these halls._ ” 

“There are other things—” 

“ _Other things? We are laying siege to the heart of the enemy; there are no ‘other things’._ ” 

She makes to step away, but a golden gauntleted hand reaches forth in a gesture meant to comfort. 

“…how are you feeling?” 

“ _…you want to know how I **feel**? You know I cannot feel anything, old paladin._” 

“Humor me, just this once.” 

There is a moment of silence as she glances from right to left, icy blue gaze searching each group for eavesdroppers. 

“ _I ‘feel’ as I always do, Fordring. Cold, and empty._ ” 

“He will pay for what he has done. To you, and to countless others.” 

There is a pause in her movements at his near-automatic oath of vengeance, but she turns away without another word, and she hears the beginnings of a hushed prayer. Before he can recite the final verse, she is gone, slipping past the stragglers and slower paced as if it were second nature, and not long after, the whispers start to follow. 

She forces the chatter out as she seems to shift, passing those closest as a wraith as she weaves through the gaps between the living. Her motions are silent and fluid as those nearby dawdle and gawp at their surroundings, eager to jump at the shadows that lurk behind the corners, but not appearing to notice as she sidles by. 

A moment of reprieve is interrupted as tendrils of ice and shadow touch at the far reaches of her consciousness, and she stops in her steps. 

“ ** _I know you have come._** ” 

His voice, distant at first, echoes faintly within her mind, and she nearly scrambles to round the closest corner as she regains her senses.

“ ** _I know what you mean to do._** ” 

Clearer now, she hears him snicker darkly. 

“ ** _My most loyal subject. You can end this so easily, yet still you insist on guiding your former foes deeper into this darkness._** ” 

She grinds her teeth as his voice turns close, almost intimate. 

“ ** _You are not the hero he believes you to be._** ” 

His laugh echoes in her ears as his words fade, and she exhales slowly. 

Her gaze flicks to the central chamber, empty of all save a handful of scouts and stragglers, and built into the Spire itself, the Scourge transporter fair glimmers with an icy light. Her senses seem to fade to a still silence, a haze falling over her vision as her feet carry her towards the center. 

Even from where she is, the reverberations of chaos of the ensuing battles reach her. Distant war-cries, thundering sounds of lumbering monstrosities, the heavily muffled but unmistakable shrieks of the san’layn and frostwyrms echo in the cavernous chamber, but she keeps her pace, unphased. 

She recalls few small details of her time in his service, but the transporter, and how often it was used during that time, is one of them. 

She steps upon the faintly glimmering platform, her eyes sliding shut, and it activates. 

The howling of the frigid wind rises to meet her, and as she opens her eyes again, she sees him lounging upon his Throne. Chained above by his wrists and ankles, in a show of the victory that the Lich King foresees, the charred form of Bolvar Fordragon hangs limp, his breathing slow and shallow. 

He rises, descending the wide, icy steps at a slow, languid pace. 

She dips into a curtsy. 

“ _I am here… my King._ ” 

He draws closer, his mouth splitting into a wicked grin. 

“ ** _You always were my most loyal subject. Tell me what you know._** ” 

“ _Of course, my King._ ” She straightens her posture, meeting his gaze. “ _They fight split against your forces: the Silver Covenant and the Argent Crusade face against your san’layn. The Ebon Blade assault the Plagueworks. The Kirin Tor scout Sindragosa’s lair in a vain attempt to find a weakness to use against your frostwyrms. They will not succeed without sustaining heavy losses._ ” 

“ ** _In the end, they will prevail. And though Fordring is capable of much, even he will not be able to avoid a crushing defeat._** ” 

She glances back towards the transporter. 

“ _How long before they reach the Throne, my King?_ ” 

“ ** _Soon enough. Ready yourself, and relish in their despair as they see their greatest weapon turned against them._** ” 

She turns back towards him fully, bowing her head. 

“ _If I may, my King: I will return to your service properly… I only wish that my humble terms are heard._ ” 

He takes another step. 

“ ** _Name them._** ” 

“ _Retribution._ ” 

A faint shimmer around her hand and a moment to react as a glinting spear of ice shatters against his breastplate, and both stumble backwards a step. 

“ ** _I expected your little ruse to last at least until your new masters arrived._** ” 

“ _I couldn’t possibly keep it up for that long. They’ll be here soon enough, ‘my King’._ ” 

His chuckles darkly. 

“ ** _Pity. They’ll arrive only to see you fall a second time._** ” 

He raises Frostmourne on high, but a veritable hail of frozen, jagged shards ricochet off his armguard, forcing him another step backwards. His lip twitches as his hand rises, his booming voice reaching long-dead servants that await their master’s call, and the ghouls rise in unison with their wordless answers. 

She hisses and spits a vicious incantation, and an eruption of frosted blades and blood-boiling plague spews from the closest handful. The platform is coated in a spray of gore as the mangled corpses collapse in a heap, gurgling and twitching, and he calls once more: a pair of shambling vargul rise, charging forward. 

Her form shifts and shimmers as she passes through the attackers, the gleaming edge of a blade biting deep into exposed tendons behind skeletal knees. The first lumbers forward, its legs buckling beneath weight they can no longer hold, and the second follows soon after. 

“ _Do you seek to wear me down with this **fodder**? You really must not think much of me._” 

Her nameless runeblade smashes against Frostmourne. 

“ ** _All soldiers are fodder. Now, and when you were my blade._** ” 

He pushes against the blade sending her backwards a handful of feet, and with a scowl, she raises a hand into the air as dark magic gathers around her fingers. The ichor and blood of the mutilated ghouls and vargul erupts in a burning plague, but he strides forward unphased. 

The subtle way her eyes widen does not escape his notice. 

His empty hand reaches forward— 

The transporter suddenly flairs with a life not seen in years, a brilliant, blinding light that envelopes his vision, forcing him back to the wide steps below his Throne. He levels his gaze to her again, but behind her is a veritable army of champions. 

Darion steps forward, a blade over his shoulder as he glances back to the mustached knight. 

“ _I told you: she’s already tried to throttle him, and we’ve only just gotten here._ ” 

The other man snickers obviously as Tirion steps forward, his rage barely hidden. 

“ ** _So… the Light’s vaunted justice has finally arrived._** ” 

His laughter rumbles, and the old paladin’s grip upon the Ashbringer tightens in fury. 

“ ** _Shall I lay down Frostmourne and throw myself at your mercy?_** ” 

“We will grant you a swift death, Arthas.” He gestures to the small army behind him, but Arthas outstretches a hand, and the command is silenced by entombing frost. 

“ ** _I will keep you alive to witness the end._** ” He beckons towards the group, a taunting smirk visible in the shadows of his helm. “ ** _Come then. Frostmourne hungers._** ” 

His former servants respond in earnest. 

Darion breaks into a run, his twin blades brandished, and the serrated edges catch against Frostmourne. The mustached knight launches a jagged spear of frost, following soon behind it. Moktha calls forth a pestilence, blighted insects swarming the surrounding area. Christina plants her blade into the stone, drawing upon the falling snow and fractured glacier, a relentless storm building around the group. 

Darion’s voice rings clearly, even through the blistering winds. 

“ _Rescue Bolvar!_ ” 

The rangers of the Silver Covenant and the mages of the Kirin Tor leap into action as a burst of unholy strength flings Darion backwards, the force of the blow denting battered chain and plate as he is sent hard to the smooth stone with a pained grunt. The Lich King’s empty hand rises, and a vargul bursts from the ice, only to be impaled by the frozen spear hardly a moment later and throwing the mustached knight off course. 

“ ** _Perhaps you should have commanded that they rescue you instead._** ” 

The orc’s swarm seems to dissolve, the shriveled insects and devouring plague freezing and disintegrating into dust before they can reach their target as he himself is tackled by another vargul that seems to explode from the frost. 

He turns toward the last among his former servants that still stands. 

“ ** _You think yourself a storm, little Chrissa?_** ” He sneers. “ ** _You are a gentle snowfall against the howling winds of Northrend._** ” 

He raises Frostmourne on high. 

“ ** _I will freeze you from within, until all that remains is an icy husk._** ” 

The blizzard around her dissipates as her concentration is lost, diving away to avoid the onslaught of hail and sleet that seek to bring truth to his words. The jagged shards rip across smooth stone and plated armor, scoring both deeply as she struggles to rise again to her feet. 

The arrows of the Silver Covenant ricochet off the chains that hold Bolvar in place, but at last, they hit their marks. 

“ _Press forward!_ ” 

Darion surges forth, the serrated edges of his blades biting into the Plate of the Damned, marring the frosted silver surface with jagged slashes. The mustached knight launches himself, heaving the thick-bladed broadsword above his head to deliver a rending blow, cracking the gauntlet of the Lich King’s free hand before bounding backwards and out of reach. 

Bolvar falls limp into the arms of his awaiting saviors below. 

“ _Bring him back!_ ” 

The vargul gurgles faintly as it slumps lifelessly to the stone, the foul magic holding it together dissipating as the orc rises with a bestial scream, barreling forward in a charge. He collides with the imposing form of the Lich King, but is knocked to the side with a forceful blow to his ribs, Darion following soon behind. A sudden cold snap freezes Christina’s wrists together and to the marred stone before she can rise fully. 

Screams and cries are silenced as those carrying Bolvar are frozen utterly, and the tortured paladin falls, painstakingly forcing himself to crawl forward towards allies. 

“ ** _Pathetic._** ” 

Time seems to slow as the paladin’s mouth hangs in an unvoiced cry, the razor-sharp tip of Frostmourne erupting from his chest. He collapses motionless to the smooth stone, a dying spark of blue pulled forth and to the edge of the blade before vanishing. 

“ _Bolvar!_ ” 

Darion’s voice echoes distantly amidst the howling winds, and a wretched scream pierces through the haze, a surge of unholy strength splitting the frost that binds her. She is a blur as she takes up her blade, launching herself at her former master. 

He reaches out with his free hand, and her eyes widen subtly for a second time. 

His grip upon her throat is tight enough, forcing the nameless runeblade to fall from her grip and clatter uselessly to the platform. 

“ ** _Return to my side, and all will be forgiven._** ” 

She tears in vain at his hand, her jaw clenched and teeth bared. 

“ ** _This rabble is far beneath you._** ” 

He squeezes very slightly, relishing in the choked noise that bubbles up from her throat. 

“ ** _What say you, my servant? Will you return to your King?_** ” 

His grip loosens somewhat, and she sputters. 

“ _I… will… never…_ ” 

“ ** _So be it._** ” 

He tosses her carelessly to the platform, and power surges through the cursed blade, knocking all still standing flat and pressing hard upon their throats. 

“ ** _You overcame every challenge I laid before you; my mightiest servants have fallen before your relentless onslaught. But I wonder… is it truly righteousness that drives you?_** ” 

They thrash against it, but one by one, they begin to fall still. The Lich King turns towards the champion of the Light. 

“ ** _You trained them well, Fordring. You delivered the greatest fighting force this world has ever known… right into my hands._** ” 

His laughter is drowned out as their vision blackens. 

“Light… Grant me one final blessing… Give me the strength…!” 

Distant at first but growing ever closer, there is a glimmer of Light within the entombing ice, and with a mighty burst, it shatters to pieces. With a cry he leaps at the Lich King, bringing the Ashbringer downwards in a cleaving blow. 

And with a deafening shriek, Frostmourne breaks. 

Arthas drops the broken blade, and as it clangs against the smooth stone, the souls trapped within escape from their prison. They churn around him in a torrent, and as he yells something unintelligible, the image of King Terenas Menethil the Second appears before them. 

“Free! At last! It is over, my son. This is the moment of reckoning.” 

Holy Light surges through the image before cascading out in all directions, and as if pulled towards water’s surface, they gasp for air. 

The torrent of souls dissipates as they are pulled beyond the veil, and Arthas drops heavily to the platform, but he is given no chance to recover. 

The dingy blues and grays of her armor are a blur as she collides with him, sending them both to the ground and knocking the Helm of Domination from him. He makes a grab for his broken blade, but she pins him with an unholy strength, straddling his torso, her nameless runeblade raised. 

A glare of defiance from him sends the blade downwards with no hesitation from its wielder. 

Time seems to slow, his eyes wide and mouth agape as the blade punches through his armor and digs deep, breaking bone and severing muscle. She stares down at him wide-eyed, teeth gritted in fury, pushing the blade until it can go no further, and his hand reaches towards her.

She rises as swiftly as she can, withdrawing the blade from his chest and standing over him. The image of King Terenas approaches his fallen son, kneeling slowly and resting a hand upon the mortal wound, the icy glow in his son’s eyes fading. 

“F-father… is it over…?” 

“At long last. No king rules forever, my son.” 

He casts a final, unfocused glance towards her, his other hand reaching weakly out. 

“Chrissa… I…” He wheezes. 

She instinctively takes a step backwards, and both his hand and his voice falter. 

“There is… only…” 

He falls silent, his hand falling limp to the stone beneath. The image of the king of Lordaeron releases his son’s lifeless body and stands, facing Tirion. 

“Without its master’s command, control of the restless Scourge will be lost. Control that _must_ be maintained.” 

He pauses, almost hesitant. 

“There must _always_ be a Lich King.” 

The image of the last king fades, leaving those who remain to tend to their fallen and injured. Tirion inhales deeply of the frigid air, exhaling slowly as he takes hold of the crown. 

“The weight of such a burden… it must be mine to—” 

A brief, freezing sting strikes his forearm and causes him to drop the crown, sending it clanging again to the smooth stone. She stands several feet from him, her gaze nearly boring holes into him, her hand still outstretched and frost shimmering around her fingertips. 

Her steps are slow as she approaches him, her blade falling from her lax grip to lay forgotten near the shards of Frostmourne. 

“ _An eternal existence, devoid of life and Light… that is not your fate._ ” 

“What are—” 

She says nothing, but he knows. 

“Christina, you cannot—” 

“ _The Scourge still blight the lands outside of Northrend, and all who oppose them will rally behind your call to arms._ ” 

Darion, Moktha, and the mustached knight step forward, their armor clattering and nearly broken from the struggle. The mustached knight takes another step, pounding twice against his chest with a fist in an informal salute. 

“ _Then take up your Throne… ‘my King’._ ” 

Her lip twitches in recognition, and without another word she turns towards the empty Throne. 

“You do not have to do this.” 

Tirion’s voice is a gentle reminder at her left, but she does not look back. 

Her steps are slow and deliberate as she approaches the wide stairs as the old paladin retrieves the crown, pausing briefly before following behind her. She reaches the peak and turns to face him, carefully lowering herself to sit upon the Throne, her ashen lips pressed into a hard line. 

“You will be as he was.” 

His voice wavers somewhat as she bows her head. 

“ _Perhaps you are right, Fordring._ ” 

Her voice is quiet, almost unsure, as Tirion places the crown upon her head, and the Throne violently trembles as the glow from her eyes spreads. As it spills from the sockets of the crown, her voice distorts. 

“ _ **...but I will hold them back. The armies of the Scourge will never leave Icecrown.**_ ” 

Frost seeps over her armor, growing thicker by the moment. 

“ _ **Take Bolvar with you… and give him a proper burial, far away from here. Leave, and do not turn back.**_ ” 

The frost fully encases her, and she falls silent and still, the glow from the crown a gentle pulse as Tirion steps down. 

“Your sacrifice will not be forgotten by those that were here to witness it.” 

He turns back to those that remain at the peak, and the façade of Tirion Fordring, Highlord of the Argent Crusade and the Silver Hand failing to reveal the face of an old paladin that had witnessed loss and sacrifice too many times before. 

“Let us leave this accursed place. There is work to be done.”


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The base falls into utter chaos.

The base falls into utter chaos. 

The ghouls gurgle and screech, some wandering and stumbling as if in a drunken haze while others go into a frenzy. Geists alternate between clutching at their hooded heads, groaning in agony, and clawing uselessly at the permafrost. The only resident abomination simply falls over, a puppet with its strings cut, its long-dead eyes glazing over further as drool and plague seep from its mouth. 

“ _What is this?! On your feet! There is work to be done!_ ” 

Arlanis Farestor’s hands reach out, tendrils of dark magic yanking at the walking corpses, but he receives no response, a handful of drudge ghouls simply falling apart into heaps on the ground. 

“ _This… this is not supposed to happen! Up! Up, damn you!_ ” 

He grinds his teeth as they remain deaf to his commands, but as suddenly as it had started, it stops. The ghouls pull themselves together again, the geists bound off and leap to the structures to continue their tasks, and the abomination wiggles and flails somewhat as it rises to its feet. 

“ _What…_ ” 

A sudden realization has him whistle sharply, and a charger materializes from the Shadowlands and gallops forth to his side. He hoists himself up and into the saddle, kicking the steed none too gently and forcing it into an immediate run towards the grand Citadel, his gut screaming as a banshee that something had happened. 

The steed canters through Corp’rethar, and he is appalled at the sight: broken and battered ghouls, shattered skeletal soldiers, and unstuffed abominations litter the grand courtyard of the Citadel. His gaze is drawn to a vague movement far above, two colossal shadows dark against the inky sky, and the pit of his stomach twists violently. 

He dismounts and scrambles through the broken doors, the battering rams and broken machines of war left to decay at the base, only to find the state of the Citadel even worse than that of outside. Nothing made it out unscathed, and if by some miracle it did, it did not survive long enough to reach reinforcements. 

If the armies that stormed the Citadel had left, did that mean…? 

He stomps twice on the transporter beneath his feet, his focus on the peak as he swallows out of habit. The biting winds rise to meet him, and he flinches instinctively from the flash of light, but quickly regains his bearings when he sees the condition of the Throne; battered mail and plate, broken weapons... and one familiar shattered gauntlet. 

“ _My King! Are you—?!_ ” 

But sitting upon the Throne, encased wholly in frost… 

“ _You!_ " 

Something within him snaps as fury overrides all other senses, and he rushes the Throne, pounding on the ice with his fists. With an inhuman scream, he draws his sword to smash it against the frost again and again, but the figure inside the ice does not move, even when the blade snaps in half and clatters uselessly to the stairs. 

“ _This… travesty… this outrage… cannot stand!_ ” 

He storms back to the transporter, angrily stomping on it. 

“ _It will not! I refuse to accept this!_ ” 

He is taken to the upper reaches of the Citadel, and his pace is brisk as he begins his search. 

If he is to overthrow this false “King” and take his rightful place, he needs a blade worthy of the task. 

He finds the remains of san’layn and a handful of the enemy’s fallen, and he rummages through the piles of corpses, his hands searching for a sharp edge. Knives, daggers, swords, _anything_ … but any he finds seem to either be broken or sting with the invaders’ wretched Light. 

“ _All worthless…_ ” He mutters to himself. 

He rises to his feet again, making his way back to the transporter, and as he stomps on it, it cracks. 

“ _What—_ " 

It suddenly flashes blindingly bright, and when he opens his eyes again… 

This place is unfamiliar to him. A part of the Citadel he has never seen; even the thought was preposterous. He had been to every corner of the structure. 

He rounds a corner, the hall opening into a round chamber with vaulted ceilings and high, narrow windows that glow with an eerie light, empty save for the dais in the center with a bare cauldron set upon it. He glances from left to right; no servants, no enemies. His steps lead him down a lengthy corridor to another, smaller chamber, but he presses forward. 

The corridor leads to what he believes is some sort of secret throne room, perhaps a mockery of the one he vaguely remembers of Stormwind, or perhaps of Lordaeron. 

A curtain rustles in the archway to the right of the throne, and he does not hesitate as he charges forth, flinging himself through the fabric prepared for any attackers to leap from their hiding places. 

…but nothing appears. 

He’s almost disappointed. 

He examines his surroundings; he appears to have barged right into some kind of library, or maybe a study. A dark-wood desk sits in one corner an oil-lamp dusty with disuse, frayed quills and dried inkwells, cobwebs coating the chair tucked neatly beneath it. 

Bookcases line the walls, punctuated every so often by wall-mounted candles, their wicks still unburnt. His eyes skim the spines for anything of value, when a title jumps out at him. 

“ _What do we have here?_ ” 

He takes the book from the shelf and flips through its pages, filled to the brim with names and descriptions and sketched images of a great variety of weapons, from war-mauls, to greatswords, to massive axes of colossal size. 

But it is the final entry that piques his interest. 

The illustration of a single-bladed axe adorns the page, accompanied by a name and a short few sentences. 

“‘ _Shadowmourne… A great axe fit for a giant, born of the sacred and the corrupt, the host of a thousand dead souls._ ’” He reads from the page, his grin broadening with every word. “ _This will do nicely._ ” 

He rips the page from the book, stuffing it into his armor as he strides from the study.


End file.
